Free Candy by Terry Southern Page B

distinction.”
    Dr. Dunlap finished pulling Candy’s panties over her shoes and flung them over his shoulder, where they settled like a silken butterfly on Krankeit’s typewriter. Candy was now delightfully nude from the waist down and lying on her back. Unhesitatingly, the hospital director put his hands on her legs and drew them apart . . .
    “DUNLAP!!”
    Dr. Dunlap hastily placed his hand on the pulsing jelly-box he’d exposed, with the air of a little boy caught doing wrong, and wishing to hide the evidence. “All right,” he said peevishly, after a moment during which Krankeit merely glared at him, “I’ll put them back on.”
    By “them,” he obviously meant Candy’s panties, yet he made no step to retrieve them. He stood, his knees slightly bent, forthrightly facing Krankeit; and his hand resting politely on Candy’s golden V.
    Krankeit’s expressive brown eyes flashed impatiently. “Well, what are you waiting for?” he said.
    “All right, all right,” exclaimed Dunlap, “how many times do you want me to say it?”
    Dr. Dunlap behaved as if there were nothing in the situation of an emergency nature—certainly nothing for Krankeit to lose his head over and raise his voice. . . . “DUNLAP!!!”
    (Krankeit had just noticed that Dr. Dunlap appeared to have only four fingers on the hand in question—that his little finger had treacherously sneaked into the orifice.)
    “Look here, Krankeit, there’s no need to shout,” Dr. Dunlap said, “we’re not in the ghetto you know.”
    Dr. Krankeit pretended to ignore this racial allusion, but when he next spoke the volume of his voice had lessened considerably and was rife with Princetonian modulations. Nevertheless it was very firm.
    “If you don’t take your finger out of Miss Christian this very instant, and replace her undergarment, I shall report what you’re doing in detail to the board of trustees.”
    This turned the trick; Dunlap let go and went to retrieve the precious little garment, wagging his hand incredulously the while to an imaginary—and sympathetic—onlooker in the corner. “Krankeit, the great rebel, the man who had the guts to jack off in the face of a Supreme Court decision, is shocked,” he said. He slipped the panties over Candy’s shoes and pulled them up into place. This was a bit complicated—he wasn’t in the habit of putting underwear on young girls—and, of course, his hand got caught inside and remained there.
    “Good Lord!” said Krankeit, exasperated. “If you’re going to poke your finger into that girl every three minutes you could at least put a p.c. on.” (p.c. standing for pinky cheater, was hospital slang for the rubber fingers gynecologists wear during digital examinations.)
    Dunlap fumbled ineptly for a little while before finally freeing his trapped hand.
    “After all,” he said, looking abused, “I was only following your advice—trying not to suppress something and have it haunt my Unconscious.”
    “It gets a little more complicated when you begin to involve another party. I didn’t say that you could just walk up to a strange woman in the street and interfere with her genitals, you know.”
    “But that’s just it!” Dunlap exclaimed. “This one is unconscious; she doesn’t know what’s happening . . . and, since it does me such a lot of good and doesn’t affect her in the slightest, why shouldn’t—”
    “Just what do you want to do?” Krankeit asked, narrowing his eyes.
    Dr. Dunlap fingered his goatee in meditation. “Let’s examine her,” he said brightly.
    Krankeit, with revulsion, pictured the two of them poring over the naked girl like a couple of scholars with a rare manuscript.
    “What the hell, she’s only a shicker,” Dunlap said with a conniving wink. “Only a what?”
    “A shicksy? I’m not sure I’m pronouncing it right—it’s Jewish, means a Gentile girl . . .”
    “I wouldn’t know,” said Krankeit coldly. Dunlap’s vernacularism—intended to invoke